Absence of Innocence
by Oxford123
Summary: If the heel of July shall fall, then chaos shall stumble back onto Earth once again. Hr/F, AU.
1. Beginning in an Ending

"Get off me!" Hermione Granger screamed hysterically as she attempted to kick the man that was warranting such abuse in the face.

The large somewhat dirty man was holding onto her foot, trying to obtain his grimy stolen wand from her equally grubby hand without hurting her. Finally succeeding in his undertaking, he wretched the wand out of her hand. The act was punctuated by Hermione's final particularly piercing shriek.

She continued to blindly sob, still trying to thoroughly injure him with her nails and legs. He struggled to aim his wand towards her chest without inflicting damage on his wand, himself, and her any further but her flailing limbs were making a mockery of the task.

"St... Stup... Stop struggling!" He bellowed frantically. "...S-stupefy! Stupefy!"

Hermione went limp; her head lolling back unto the cold hard ground. The man's own head slumped briefly as he let out a shaky sigh of relief and climbed off her. Shaking his head in disbelief, he stared at the girl. Again excluding a sigh, he murmured, "Merlin."

He wiped the nervous sweat off the back of his neck, and tried to subdue the wild excitement that was his thumping heart as he turned towards the direction of approaching footfalls. He waited, and promptly seven seconds had passed when two simarly built men raced into the cramped clearing with their own wands drawn.

Both of the two men slowly took in the scene, the fatter of the two grinning abruptly before exuberantly shouting, "Finally! Ye got 'er! Imagine chasing a wee girl for three miles straight like that!" The man paused briefly for a breath as the other man sank to the ground besides the girl. Upon catching it, he continued to hastily plow onward, "I can't believe she snatched yer wand, Cannon! Wouldn't 'ave stole my wand, that's fur bloody sure!"

O'Henry, the man who had sunk to the ground seconds before, doubted this. "Are you kiddin' me, Rawlish? Yer so thick that yer practically a squib!" He snorted.

Rawlish looked extremely offended, exclaiming, "Well, at least I don't 'ave Muggle heritage, yeh half-breed!"

Cannon rolled his eyes, sitting on an abandoned tree stump. He was used to the random insults they seemed to fling at each other daily.

O'Henry glared. "Oh, good Merlin, will you shut yer bloody mouth already, Rawlish? You know I don't have any filthy Muggle..." O'Henry trailed off, looking suddenly captivated by Hermione's face. "Oh! Dear sweet Merlin and all that is holy, is that... it can't possibly be!"

O'Henry crawled over and knelt besides Hermione, examining her face carefully.

Rawlish glowered at O'Henry, impatiently exclaiming, "Well, what is it then!"

"It's… well, bless my soul, I saw 'er at the Triwizard Cup, and I'd recognize 'er anywhere, I reckon. It's Hermione Granger, one of 'arry Potter's best fri -"

"I know who Hermione Granger is, boy!" Rawlish interrupted rudely, growling as he kneeled beside the two. "Are yer sure it's her? The word is that she's been on the run for close ter ten months!"

"Since the fall of 'arry Potter himself!" O'Henry whispered, looking at the soiled girl in awe.

Fortunately for both Cannon and the general conservation of the world neither O'Henry nor Rawlish noticed the how wide in alarm Cannon's eyes were at their observations.

"Do yer know how much she'll be worth!" Rawlish bellowed. "We're gunna be rich!"

O'Henry looked over at Rawlish, his eyes glowing with a newfound greed. "Very rich!"

"We should secure 'er immediately, then!" said Cannon, trying to steady his shaking voice.

"Yes, yes... good idea, Cannon, good idea! We can't 'ave any chance of 'er somehow slipping away. Heard Granger is a tricky, smart little bugger! Once we take 'er back ter the holding bay with the others, we can put 'er in the auction tomorrow…" Rawlish muttered, trying to calculate his earn of the profit. "Do yah know 'ow old she is, O'Henry?"

"About… eighteen, I'd say."

"Perfect!" Rawlish smiled contentedly, rocking back on his ankles. He squinted at the grey sky and then Hermione, murmuring, "I reckon once all the dirt is scrubbed off, she'll be a pretty one. We might be able to get even more than we bargained for from some nice, young pureblood man out there. Maybe even Draco Malfoy himself! I heard he hated her above all; he'd probably like to have a bit of fun with 'er!"

"I'll Apparate 'er back ter the warehouse, then, and you two can go get some sleep." Cannon responded, casually, as he wiped his face off with the back of his hand.

"Well..." Rawlish trailed off, standing up and walking towards him, seemingly in thought. Cannon could feel every muscle in his back coiling tightly in that brief pause that lasted only seconds.

"Alright, then. The wife wants me home early anyway, somethin' about me takin' her out to supper. But anyway, I knows I can trust yer," Rawlish replied confidently, slapping Cannon on the back as he stood. "You've been with me and O'Henry nearly six months and yer my best man. I have faith in yer!"

O'Henry regarded Cannon suspiciously for a moment, before finally nodding grudgingly. "I wouln't mind leavin' early if yer up for it, Cannon... Didn't want ter mention anything, but I reckon you'll make a fine third partner in this business someday. Especially when our Dark Lord lets us start collectin' the Muggles!"

Cannon smiled uneasily.

"Are ye sure yah can handle 'er though, Cannon? She's such a large, mighty thing!" Rawlish and O'Henry burst into chortles before Rawlish added, "And don't be sampling the product before it gets sold, if yer know what I mean!"

The two men both Apparated out of the clearing without another word.

Staring at the spot they had apparated from in open revulsion for a few seconds, Cannon shuddered in horror. He shook his head curtly, dropping down beside the unconscious girl.

"Those men are such pigs. Imagine. Don't actually. As if I could ever," Cannon whispered, trailing off. His plebian accent was curiously absent. "I didn't think they would realize who you are. It would have been so much easier that way. I'll have to move, now, and get a new name. Again." He sighed, glancing at his watch, "But at least I won't ever have to do this again."

He poked her shoulder gently, watching her face contort for a second before it once again smoothed. "Odd to think that one as small and fragile as you is the key to everything. But it's fitting in a way too, I suppose." He smiled softly before grabbing the key chain that he had conveniently transfigured into an untraceable portkey the day before.

Hurriedly glancing at his watch once more, he pulled Hermione into a rough hug. "Only five second… three… one."

A faint wind swirled through the forest, and a man with a faintly ginger beard and a girl with dirty chocolate curls disappeared from England for the moment.

--

"Lumière," the man named Cannon whispered into the darkness.

Adjusting the girl that was thrown over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes, his eyes combed the country side for unwelcome watchers. Seeing none, he let out a breath of relief.

No one was following him.

The elaborate gates swung forward, allowing him entrance to the French castle. He walked forward, overly conscious of the crunching echo of gravel as he did. As soon as he was inside the property, the gates whooshed close so quickly that he was sure anyone unlucky enough to be caught in the middle would have been crushed instantly.

Shivering unconsciously at the thought, he walked towards a side door near a bush.

Cannon paused briefly as he came upon the door, looking over his should one last time. He wanted to be sure. He couldn't bring danger to this house.

His hand was in midair to knock when the door swung open rather abruptly.

"Get in," a beautiful French accented voice ordered from somewhere inside the eerie darkness of the house.

Cannon obliged, his dirty shoes clicking on marble of what he presumed was the foyer. The door slammed closed as abruptly as it had opened, leaving everything enclosed in blackness.

"Is it really her?" She asked uncertainly.

"Yes," Cannon replied, smiling slightly as he continued, "After ten months of searching, I've finally found her."

His smile turned into a cautious frown as he heard the woman laugh softly from his distance away. "But before I entrust her to you, I must have you immediate assurance that she will not be harmed. I've explained partly what will happen if she is somehow hurt --"

"You know that I would have killed you the moment you walked through my door had this not been my cause," the woman interrupted harshly.

"Yes," Cannon said, hesitantly. "I'm sorry if I've offended you. But she is near family to me, and holds a special place inside my heart."

"I swear," the woman said flatly before stating, "I have a question before you leave."

"Ask," Cannon said, cradling Hermione in his arms.

"What am I to do with her? You said to keep her safe. But if I hide her, then I am risking my life," the woman said.

"You don't have to hide her, Delacour, but you need to take care of her. I've seen what they do to their slaves, and if I ever found out that you were doing that to her," he paused, not bothering to finish his threat.

"Careful, stranger," the woman hissed. "I do not take kindly to threats when I'm doing such enormous favors."

"Sorry," Cannon replied, genuinely. "It's just imperative that she be kept safe. She is our only hope and should she... die then he will never be stopped."

"Very well," the voice said, touching Cannon's arm. "Give her to me."

"Swear," Cannon whispered, cradling Hermione near to his heart. "Swear on your life that you will not harm her and will not allow her to be harmed, and I will trust you."

"I swear on my life I will not harm her, and I will keep her from harm," she repeated.

"Good," Cannon paused, pressing a chaste kiss to the girl's forehead. "I know what you are, Delacour. I know that you can protect her and let her thrive. Hermione is stubborn but she will prevail if given the right circumstances."

"The hope of our world rests on your shoulders. Wear it well," he said, carefully exchanging the girl.

"I intend to," the woman replied, taking her.

"_If the heel of July shall fall, then chaos shall stumble back onto Earth once again." _Cannon whispered. "Harry has failed but she doesn't have to. Guard her well, and the reward might be all that richer for you."

"My presence endangers the both of you so I'll take my leave now."

"Goodbye, Bill."

A loud crack filled the air, and bright purple light illuminated the small foyer.

If anyone had been standing in that particular foyer, excluding the two women that were, at that particular time in that particular city in France, then they would have seen poorly concealed fear written all over Fleur Delacour's face.

Clutching the girl closer to her chest, the conscious woman whispered, "I set wards so that no human could Disapparate out of this house."

The girl that would surpass Harry Potter's greatness tenfold stirred in her arms, whimpering from a bad dream.


	2. Tête à Tête

Hermione Granger jerked awake.

Without pretense, her mouth formed a silent scream. After several wide-eyed moments of gasping, her mouth slowly closed in relief. It had just been a dream. It was all a dream.

Her mouth was parched and her entire body sore, she noted dully, needlessly. She always felt like this; she always felt like death warmed up with a particularly incompetent warming charm, which was only to be expected when one slept on the hard ground of the forest floor night after night.

She blinked, the lingering effects of horror from her nightmare already abruptly fading. The complete darkness that surrounded her was odd but not rare. She must have fallen asleep at the last place her feet could carry her, exhausted and alone as always. She was just in one of the more deeper parts of the forest.

Her arms made to grasp the worn bottle beside her sitting body, and instead felt something incredibly smooth. It wasn't dirt and it surely wasn't dirty plastic. It was a floor, something that felt incredibly close to... marble.

Shivering, her fingertips glided against the smoothness.

"You're awake," a voice commented quietly, echoing slightly.

The sudden realization that she was trapped in a room made Hermione's breath catch in her throat as she scrambled to stand. Choking in terror, she blindly reached for some kind of holding or wall or _anything_ but grasped nothing but the cool marble.

A soft light flicked on with a low murmur, and Hermione immediately located the wall and scrambled to place her back against it for an advantage she would surely need.

Her eyes slowly adjusted, and she saw the soft glow was coming from a large fire. She could make out an armchair and the fireplace. Upon further wild staring, the small room appeared devoid of anything else except those items.

But she was wrong on that account. For Hermione, gaping in horror, noticed there was someone in the armchair.

"Who are you?" Hermione asked, still staring around the room for some kind of weapon, or advantage of any kind. She needed something heavy, preferably sharp, that she could attack this person with.

"We've met," the voice said.

"I've met a lot of people, you'll have to be more specific," Hermione replied, stalling for time. She was trying not to panic, not to let fear overshadow everything else. But she had heard the horror stories. The stories of the people who were captured; who were raped, tortured, and killed viciously. And not always in that order.

Inching along the wall, her hand crept toward a sword that seemed to be, perhaps unwisely, mounted on the wall.

"Don't touch that, please," the voice commanded, pleasantly enough. A thin manicured hand held a wand over the edge of the armchair ominously, pointed directly at her. She froze, her hand trained over the artifact. Weighing the pros against the cons, she slowly moved back into the shadows.

"Thank you," the woman replied, her wand disappearing. "Once upon a time that belonged to my father, and it is very dear to me. I'd rather it wasn't injured in a poorly construed attempt of resistance."

"Right," Hermione replied, a tad sarcastic despite everything. "Sorry." How easy it was, she thought absent-mindedly, to fall back into the cycle of humanity.

She hadn't the faintest clue what she was supposed to do from here - she didn't know what the woman's intentions were with her, if she was a friend or a foe. The events from last night were replaying in her mind on a reel sickly, and she found her hope rapidly depleting.

Seeing nothing else to do, she tentatively slid down the wall and waited for the woman to speak again.

"I'm surprised you haven't guessed who I am yet," the woman commented, her tone slightly patronizing.

"Well you're a woman, obviously," Hermione said, pausing before adding, "Or a man with a talent and range for voices."

The woman snorted. "I assure you I am one-hundred percent female."

"You're French, too," Hermione said, wrapping her arms around her knees tightly.

Was this a game? If so, what kind of game? Was there a wrong answer, a right one? Was she meant to answer correctly at all? Would answering bring imminent danger?

She knew how Death Eaters thought. They would prolong the torture as long as they could, and mind games were a specialty of several.

"Think."

"It could be anyone. I've been to France on every summer vacation with my..." Hermione faltered, choking on the last word of that sentence.

"Your parents," the voice caressed the air, suggesting.

"Yes," Hermione mumbled, sounding more like a question than the statement it was.

"They died."

"Yes," she gritted her teeth, shaking in a mixture of grief and fury. Was the woman making fun of her, of her losses? She couldn't tell. She couldn't tell anything!

What was happening? Why did this woman want of her?

Was she to become what so many before her had?

A silence filled the room as Hermione fought waves of emotion down. She could stomach death – could stomach the thought of Ron running into the light of Lucius Malfoy's wand so bravely - except her parents. They had been entirely innocent.

Voldemort had hunted them down like all the others, sending Fenrir Greyback to --

"Delacour," Hermione hissed, desperately pushing the memories away. "You're Fleur Delacour."

"Ten points to Gryffindor."

Hermione sighed wearily, tiredly. "What do you want with me, Delacour? I've heard the rumors surrounding you, and none of them are particularly pleasant."

"Have you," Fleur said flatly. "What are those gossips saying about me now?"

"They're saying that you sold out your family." Hermione spat, frowning in disgust. "That you sold your parents out for a pat on the back and watched their deaths with a smile on your face. They say that you killed Gabrielle yourself."

"Hmm. Assumptions, assumptions. Everyone is always making them." Fleur commented vaguely. "You shouldn't believe everything you hear."

"What should I believe?" Hermione said, smiling oddly, a bit hysterically as she looked at the ceiling. "What is the truth anymore? Was anything I just said true?"

A short pause before, "Some parts of it are, yes."

"That's enough."

"Perhaps," Fleur remarked, leaning so that Hermione could see her dim outline for the first time. "We all have our secrets. Tell me how you've managed to elude the authorities for so long."

"Are you referring to the blithering simpleton idiots that are currently running the operation?" Hermione said, drawing boldness from familiarity. "It's not terribly hard."

Fleur smiled, leaning back once again in her chair. "Remember that you're talking to one of those blithering simpleton idiots," she reprimanded sharply.

"I'm not afraid of you," Hermione lied.

She was. She was afraid of pain, of death. She had watched children die, stolen from their mothers and murdered before their time. She had seen the light fade out of so many people's eyes. Death should have been expected, really; a relief even. She had accepted long ago the only reason she was alive was sheer luck.

But the thought still made her blood run cold; it still propelled her to live as fully and as long as she could. It still made her fight.

She could never just let those bastards win.

Fleur smiled slightly, knowingly as she detected the hitch in the girl's breathing. "Yes, you are. You're afraid of me and you're afraid of the pain I could cause you. But we all die some day, so why be afraid? Pain is irrelevant. Cowards die many times before their deaths."

"Shakespeare," Hermione remarked, surprised. "But he was a Muggle writer."

"Yes."

"Are you calling me a coward?"

"No." Fleur mused, sounding amused. "Young, maybe, but never a coward."

"I want to know what you're planning to do with me." Hermione said, after a moment. Glaring at the back of the chair, she continued, "Are you my friend or enemy?"

"I'll do whatever I want with you, I suppose. I do own you now. But whether we're friends or enemies depends largely on you."

Hermione remained silent for an entire minute before eventually snarling, "What?"

"I bought you."

Hermione sneered; bright hot fury washing over her and replacing the fear as she again snarled a single word. "Why?"

"Because you were for sale."

"You can't own me," Hermione began, red seeping into her eyesight before being cut off.

"But I do, legally."

"I can't just sit around and agree with that," Hermione finally spat, standing.

"I would if I were you," Fleur commented, laughing as her wand reappeared over the edge of the chair, once again trained on the girl. "Sit down, Hermione."

Hermione remained standing, glaring at the back of the chair defiantly.

"You're not leaving this room until I choose, so sit," the woman hissed more forcibly.

Stubbornly, Hermione did not move an inch. Smiling, she uttered one word, the one thing she found she was still in control of for the moment.

"No." It gave her immense comfort.

Hermione heard a sigh, and then watched as Fleur stood up, facing Hermione dead on for the first time. Hermione blinked as she took in her face. She looked exactly the same, and exactly different. The looks were all still there, she knew that much. But there was harshness in her face, a kind of unbridled smile that frankly scared her.

"Hermione, Hermione, Hermione," Fleur sighed, smiling in the eerie way she had just described. "You're going to have to learn to accept it. It's what you are now, what defines you."

With a burst of defiance, Hermione mocked, "Fleur, Fleur, Fleur. You can't own a person's mind."

"No, you can't," Fleur acknowledged, smiling still and getting closer rapidly.

"But you can break someone's easily enough."

Hermione's eyebrows shot upward before she darted toward the sword on the wall.

Sputtering five seconds later and not knowing quite what had happened, she found herself pressed into the wall with a wand inserted firmly into her neck.

"Now," Fleur began, more casual than one would usually look holding a wand to someone's throat, "I told you that I'd rather not have that sword injured in a poorly construed attempt of resistance, did I not?"

Hermione glared, gagging slightly when Fleur jabbed the wand further into her throat. Their noses were practically touching.

"Well, didn't I? It's very dear to me."

"Maybe," Hermione coughed, clutching her throat with soothing hands when Fleur rolled her eyes and lowered her wand.

"Then don't do it if I tell you not to."

Hermione straightened, glaring as she ignored what Fleur had just said completely. "I'm going to ask you one more time, Delacour, and I'd like an answer this time. Why the hell did you bring me here for? What's my use to you?"

"Why do you think?" Fleur replied, smoothly, watching her intensely.

Hermione frowned. "I'm not in the habit of asking what I know."

Fleur stared at her before stepping back and pacing the fire's edge. "I don't know why," she finally said. "Perhaps I hold more curiosity over you than the average person. Perhaps I was interested in what you had become, what so much death and bitterness would make you. Perhaps I was being considerate of what would happen to you had I not acquired you.

"Perhaps I needed a new kitchen maid."

"What I don't understand is how could you – you, of all people – have joined _him_?" Hermione spat. "You were engaged to Bill Weasley."

"If you're jealous I can assure you it would have been a marriage of convenience and nothing else," Fleur laughed softly, picking up an ivory poker and stroking the fire carefully.

Hermione rolled her eyes, sneering in disgust as she continued, "Maybe I'll never understand why you sold out the people that loved you; maybe I can't and shouldn't want to."

Fleur looked up, dropping the poker before staring straight into the eyes of the other girl.

"You should understand that I'm a survivor first, Hermione, and a multitude of other things afterward."

* * *

A/N: I've been gone so long, haven't I? I'd like to say I've changed; I'd like to say that my writing skills have become MUCH better (because I've reread everything, and wow, I seemed to have had an aversion to spell checker.) But you'll be the ultimate judge of that, I suppose.

I've reformatted the story for the last time. (I swear!) I just had a few plot changes to make and then, I wasn't digging Fleur's accent. On retrospect, it seemed tacky.

But anyway, I'm back, blah blah blah. I hope this doesn't suck as much as I happen to think it does. Reviews are welcome and encouraged but after ten months of absence, I have a new appreciation for lurkers.


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